


Late Night Phone Call

by timeiscontagious



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeiscontagious/pseuds/timeiscontagious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first phone call comes at 2:13 in the morning on a Wednesday two weeks after Ian left him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mickey

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Late Night Phone Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11206710) by [martosunian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/martosunian/pseuds/martosunian)



The first phone call comes at 2:13 in the morning on a Wednesday two weeks after Ian left him. Mickey isn’t asleep. Can’t sleep. Can only stare at his ceiling and go over the brief conversation he had had with Ian. He’s performing an autopsy, wanting to find the cause of death, wanting to dissect every vital organ of their relationship so that he can see what had shut down, what had given up.

His phone buzzes and instead of letting it go to voicemail like he’s been doing he checks who’s calling. Because a phone call at 2:13 in the morning is never a good thing.

Ian.

His hands shake as he answers it.

“Hello?”

Silence. He knows Ian is on the other end; he can feel his presence even through the phone.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he panics.

Ian hangs up.

* * *

 

The second call comes two days later. Mickey spends the day in bed, drunk and high, and trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest. He finally understands why Ian had retreated to bed all those months ago. It’s easier there. It’s safe. It means that damage could no longer be done.

Mickey is exhausted. The only respite he’s gotten was yesterday when he passed out after consuming a bottle of vodka. Ian is hell on his liver.

It’s 3:32 when his phone buzzes.

Ian.

“Hello?”

Silence again. The abyss of silence.

“Ian, say something. What do you need?”

He hears the phone click.

* * *

 

The next night around the same time the first call had come in, Mickey’s phone buzzes. He’s sitting cross-legged in bed and answers immediately. He never knew how not to answer the phone when Ian called. He doesn’t bother with a greeting.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you calling if you’re not going to talk?”

Ian hangs up. This time Mickey tries to call him back, but it goes to voicemail. Mickey takes a swig of the flat beer that had been sitting on his bedside table, lies down, and anticipates the next phone call.

* * *

 

Mickey stays in bed again the next day, only getting up to pee and get more beer from the fridge. He knows he should eat something, but the thought of it makes his stomach roll. He would rather drink on an empty stomach then risk vomiting. He lies down after chugging two beers and thinks about the last time he and Ian were in this bed.

It had been early morning. They had just fucked. Ian had been above him, and in him, and all around him. They had begun to fuck face to face more often than not. They stared into each other’s eyes when they came, shaking and gasping and clinging to each other as they rode it through. Afterwards, they reveled in the afterglow. Ian had his head propped on his hand, tracing figures on Mickey’s chest. Mickey had grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers, secretly marveling at how well they fit together.

Green eyes met blue eyes and Ian whispered.

“I’m happy.”

Mickey beamed.

* * *

 

At 1:30, Mickey’s phone buzzes, disturbing the night air. He answers and does something different. He shares.

“I was thinking about the last time we were in our bed together. How we fit. How you told me that you were happy. What changed? How did it go from you being happy to _that_? Tell me how.”

Mickey hears Ian take a breath and then hang up.

Mickey cries.

* * *

 

Why Ian calls Mickey in the middle of the night is a mystery to him. He chalks it up to Ian being unable to sleep, possibly because he’s manic or depressed. Maybe he misses Mickey or maybe he just wants to stick the rusty knife in deeper. Mickey doesn’t know what’s going through Ian’s mind anymore. The disease had stolen that particular ability.

This time when Mickey answers the phone he starts to reminiscence.

“Remember when we snuck into Sox Park? It was the Cross-Town Classic, but neither one of us gave a shit. We ate hot dogs. Yours was just with ketchup and I told you how weird that was. We drank the beers we brought with us in your backpack. You took a selfie of us. Said you wanted to take more pictures of us; said there wasn’t enough. Then I sucked you off in the bathroom. I complained about how the knees of my jeans were sticky, how I didn’t even want to know why the floor was sticky. You laughed at me and told me to stop complaining, that it was a labor of love. When we walked home, you put your arm around my shoulder. We fucked twice that night. I know the face you make when you come. I know the sounds you make. I know your body better than I know my own. But I can’t remember when I stopped knowing your mind. Was it before or after I came out?"

Mickey's angry now.

"Tell me, Ian. Was it before or after?”

Ian doesn’t say a word. He just hangs up.

Mickey punches the wall.

* * *

 

Mickey shakes when he stops drinking. He feels sick. He doesn’t know if it’s withdrawal or the pain in his heart. All he knows is that he needs more beer. So he gets up. Puts on pants. Puts on his jacket. He walks three blocks out of his way so that he doesn’t have to pass the Kash and Grab. He can’t bear to see where it all began, where he first started to fall in love. He goes home and drinks a six pack in under an hour. He falls asleep. It’s the buzzing of his phone that jolts him awake. He suddenly finds himself hating how quickly he jumps to appease Ian.

“I went to the store today. I avoided the Kash and Grab. I couldn’t see it, you know? I couldn’t see where it started. I mean, I know I fought you tooth and nail, but it started for me there. It did. I don’t know if you believe that. I know I didn’t show it, but it was there. You snuck up on me; I never even saw you coming. What does that say about me?”

He pauses here, works up the nerve to say what he’s been thinking for the past few days.

“Sometimes I wish I never met you. Sometimes I wish I never knew your name.”

This time, Mickey is the one who hangs up.

* * *

 

It’s a week and a half before the next call. Mickey knows he probably upset Ian with what he said. He feels slightly vindicated before just feeling shitty. He calls Mandy and assumes she already knows. She doesn’t. She hasn’t spoken with Ian in weeks. So Mickey tells her their story from beginning to end. Bless his sister because she listens to every fucking word he says. She doesn’t interrupt, just lets him talk until he reaches the end.

The end, the end. The end of the story of them.

He cries when he tells her how much he misses Ian. How he fought so hard to keep them alive, to keep them going. It had only made sense. Ian had fought for years and Mickey knew it was his turn, especially when Ian was so lost in the disease that he couldn’t do it anymore. So Mickey fought for the both of them. It wasn’t enough. He used every weapon in his arsenal, but it wasn’t enough.

“Give him time, Mickey. He’s swimming in murky waters even for him. He just needs to get his shit together. When he does, he’ll come back. You’re the love of his life.”

Mickey laughs.

“Fuck, Mandy. Wouldn’t it be funny if that were true?”

* * *

 

By the time Mickey’s phone buzzes at 2:43, Mickey’s drained. After that conversation with Mandy, he doesn’t know if he has it in him to talk to Ian. Especially since he’s getting nothing in return. He answers the phone anyway. He doesn’t know how to reject Ian anymore.

“I talked to Mandy today. I didn’t even ask about how she was doing. All I did was talk about you. When did you stop loving me? I’ve been trying to wrack my brain, trying to pinpoint it, but I don’t know.”

Mickey cries now.

“I was so ready to spend my life with you, you know. You were the constant in my life. And goddamn you, you took that away from me. So what do I do now, huh? What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

There is nothing but silence on the other end.

Mickey snaps.

“Fuck you, Ian.”

So Ian hangs up.

* * *

 

Three days later Ian calls again. Mickey’s done. He doesn’t know what Ian’s trying to prove, but it’s enough now. Mickey answers the phone and begins to slash with his words.

“Listen, I don’t know what this is. I don’t know if you’re torturing me on purpose. For what I don’t know. For hospitalizing you? For wanting you to take your meds? You got to give me something here, Ian. You got to give me a clue.”

Mickey begins to sob.

“You don’t love me anymore. And that breaks my fucking heart. Could you love me again? Do you think you could? Is that why you keep calling? Are you trying to tell me to wait? Because I will. I’ll wait. But you got to tell me what I’m waiting for.”

Silence is what he gets in return. Always silence. That fucking abysmal silence.

Mickey sniffs and makes sure his voice is hard.

“Don’t call me anymore.”

And with that demand, the one-sided conversation is done.

* * *

 

Mickey doesn’t hear from Ian for six months. For the first two he keeps expecting for that phone to buzz, to hear the silence on the other end. The call never comes.

So he begins to move on. He gets out of bed. He does laundry. He eats. He stops drinking so much. He starts going on runs with his brothers again, scamming people in an effort to make ends meet. He fucks other men, usually in alleys or bathrooms or occasionally the park. He doesn’t take anyone home. He doesn’t get serious. He’s made that mistake before and it broke him.

Mickey only thinks about Ian at night when he’s by himself and having trouble sleeping. It’s one of these nights that his phone buzzes. He checks and it’s Ian. He contemplates not answering, but he does.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mick.”


	2. Ian

The day after Ian ends his relationship with Mickey, he wakes up as he normally does. He takes a shower, gets dress, drinks coffee, and goes to work with Fiona. He works two shifts, goes home, helps make dinner, watches TV, and goes to bed. He doesn’t cry once. He doesn’t think about Mickey once.

It’s like they never existed.

On a Tuesday afternoon two weeks after the end of their relationship while he’s busy wiping off a table covered in crumbs and sticky from syrup, he finally realizes what he’s done.

Ian spends the rest of his shift with shaky hands and the taste of bile in his throat. He excuses himself to the bathroom a couple of times not trusting himself to not vomit all over the floor. Once he’s home, he rushes to the bathroom – the only place he can actually be alone – and sits down on the edge of the tub. He places his head in his hands. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t make a sound really. Just takes deep breaths. A knock sounds on the door before he hears Debbie’s voice.

“Ian, are you okay?”

He removes his head from his hands, steadies his voice, and closes his eyes.

“I’m fine, Debs.”

He opens the door, walking past Debbie into his room. She follows him and watches as he sits on the bed, examining his face.

“You don’t look good.”

He sighs.

“I’m just tired.”

A look crosses her face, one he’s seen many times over the years. He used to have the same look every time Monica entered their lives. The fact that it’s been directed at him for the past few months makes his anger bubble, but he refrains from lashing out.

“It was a long day at work. That’s all it is.”

She nods and he knows she doesn’t believe him. He knows and she knows, but she walks away anyway.

It was the best he could have hoped for.

* * *

 

Ian doesn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he startles awake at the sound of screaming. He rubs his eyes and focuses on the voices. It’s Debbie and Fiona. He makes his way down to the kitchen where he watches Debbie and Fiona yell in each other’s faces while Lip sits at the table with his hands covering his face.

He wasn’t called into this Gallagher council and he doesn’t know whether to be grateful or offended. He settles for offended when he realizes what they’re arguing about.

Debbie’s pregnant. And she’s keeping it. This of course doesn’t sit well with Fiona which is how they found themselves in this argument. Fiona is demanding Debbie get an abortion. Debbie’s refusing, claiming that the guy – Ian doesn’t catch his name – will be involved. They’ll be together. They’ll be a family. Naivety seems to be genetic.

“How far along are you?”

All three of his siblings turn to look at him not having realized that he had entered the room. Debbie stares.

“A month, maybe a little more. I don’t know. I haven’t gone to the doctor yet.”

Ian replies.

“So you still have time. Nothing needs to be decided tonight.”

“I’ve already made my decision.”

“Debbie, you’re fourteen. You have no idea how this will break you.”

Ian looks to Fiona for confirmation. She would know better than anyone what it’s like to raise kids so young. Fiona stares at the floor. He’s suddenly become the asshole in the room.

Debbie bites back with a vehemence Ian didn’t know she possessed.

“Well, excuse me if I don’t take advice from a man who can’t get his own shit together.”

With that, she grabs her coat from the pegs on the wall and storms out of the back door.

The kitchen becomes silent.

* * *

 

Lip finds Ian lying on his bed, fingers tapping on his stomach and eyes staring at the ceiling. Lip remains at the door with his hands in his pockets as if mental illness were catching. Ian rolls his eyes at his posture. Lip begins.

“Debbie didn’t mean what she said.”

“Yes, she did.”

Lip hesitates.

“Yeah, she did.”

Lip pauses before he continues.

“How are you doing? Fiona told me about Mickey. About what happened with Mickey.”

“I’m fine.”

Ian used to hate that whole “I’m fine” bullshit. That’s all he heard growing up. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Monica’s fine.” Saying “fine” always means it’s a lie. Now, it’s all he says. It’s still a lie.

“It’s okay to be upset, you know. I mean, you and Mickey. It was a big part of your life for a long time. You’re allowed to show emotion about it.”

Ian sits up, rubs his hands over his face, and chuckles.

“Thanks for the permission.”

“Ian…”

“I think I’m going to go to bed now. It’s been a long fucking day.”

“All right. Tell me if you need anything. I’m here for you, brother.”

Ian remains silent while Lip walks away. Ian knows he won’t take him up on his offer.

* * *

 

He pretends to be asleep when he hears Fiona enter his room to put Liam to bed. He feels her stare at him for a bit before she walks out, closing the door behind her.

Ian lies in bed and runs through the past two weeks in his head, wondering how he was able to avoid the ramifications of his decision for so long. At 2:13 in the morning, he calls the only person that’s ever really brought him any comfort.

Calling Mickey was a mistake. He realizes this the moment he hears panic in Mickey’s voice. He hangs up without a word because he can’t stomach it. He’s been living with a panicked family for months now. He’s sick of panic, of rising fear, of quickened breath. He hangs up and vows to not call Mickey again.

* * *

 

For the next two days, he carries on as he was before. Debbie avoids him like the plague and Fiona gives him sympathetic looks like he’s going to shatter at any second. He can’t stand either of them. The only good thing is that everyone has become so wrapped up in their own fucked up shit that they mostly ignore his. He figures he manages just fine without them.

Until he doesn’t.

He knows he vowed to never call Mickey again. And he knows he shouldn’t, but he does it anyway.

So at 3:32 in the morning, he listens as Mickey asks what he needs. He doesn’t have an answer.

So he hangs up.

* * *

 

He calls again the next night. Mickey answers on the first ring which indicates he’s been expecting Ian’s call. The poor bastard. Mickey forgoes a greeting this time, asking instead why Ian calls if he’s not even going to talk.

That’s a good question. Ian’s been asking himself the same thing, but the only conclusion he’s come to is that he wants to.

This time when Ian hangs up Mickey calls him back. He stares at his phone. He won’t answer. He lets it go to voicemail.

Mickey doesn’t leave a message.

* * *

 

The next morning he wakes to more yelling. He ignores it this time while he gets ready for work. He contemplates just walking down the stairs that lead to the front door, but he decides against it. Debbie’s his sister. He should probably know what’s going on.

He comes to regret this. He arrives just in time to see Debbie throw a plate against the wall. Liam starts to cry. He and Fiona look on at the viciousness that has become their baby sister. When did she change?

He looks to Fiona for an explanation to this sudden act of aggression. Fiona explains in a frustrated tone.

“She went to the doctor. She’s definitely pregnant. She’s getting an abortion.”

Debbie yells.

“The fuck I am. This is my baby, not yours. You don’t have a say in this.”

“I do when it means I’ll be the one supporting it. When you realize it’s not all frilly dresses and play dates at the park, I’ll be the one taking care of it. I’m not taking care of another kid, Debbie. I’m done.”

“No one fucking asked you to. He and I will be just fine raising this baby. We’re going to be a family. We’re going to be happy, and we’re going to take care of each other, and no one’s going to disappear or pop in and out or forget to pay bills and buy food.”

Ian realizes then that Debbie got pregnant on purpose. She’s trying to replace their fucked up family with delusions of a white picket fence. He confronts her.

“So, where is he? If he’s going to be so involved, where is he?”

He waves the red flag in front of the bull and she charges.

“I know where he is. Do you know where yours is?”

This time it’s Ian that storms out. His sister has turned into a vindictive bitch.

* * *

 

That night when he calls Mickey he actually contemplates talking. Mickey starts before Ian even has a chance. He reminds Ian of a morning months ago now, a morning Ian forgot in the chaos. A morning of sex and love and happiness. He had been happy. He remembers being happy. Mickey asks him when it changed. When did he stop being happy. Ian takes a breath and hangs up.

He spends the next few hours asking himself when he stopped being happy. He knows and he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to think about how it was the moment after he said that that he knew he wasn’t happy. He had noticed a change in himself long before Mickey did. Long before Mickey would admit it. A restlessness was building, one he knew would make or break them.

One he knew would definitely break them.

For the first time since their end, he lets himself cry.

* * *

 

Calling Mickey has almost become a nightly ritual. A perverse nightly ritual because he knows he’s prolonging the pain, knows he’s kicking a dog when he’s down. But he doesn’t want to stop.

Mickey tells him about the Cross Town Classic. About taking pictures and eating hot dogs. About drinking warm beer and blow jobs in a crowded bathroom. He listens while Mickey talks to him about knowing his body but not his mind. When did Mickey stop knowing his mind?

Ian hangs up because he doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to tell Mickey that he stopped knowing Ian’s mind when Ian stopped knowing it himself.

Ian whispers in the dark.

“Before. It was before.”

* * *

 

Ian finds himself sitting in the dugout after work. Listening to Mickey reminiscence about their life together has begun to make him dredge up the past. He remembers the two times they fucked here. The first when Ian was so enamored with Mickey that he did whatever he could to keep him close, hoping against hope that Mickey would love him. He even remembers thinking that that night. Remembers going home and lying in bed, a litany of one sentence running through his head. _Please let him love me. Please let him love me._

The second was right before the fall. When Ian was angry and tired and afraid. When he was filled with resentment. He was already overflowing with resentment. Mickey pushed and pulled and tried to shove a square peg into a round hole.

Their communication skills were never that good. They had failed to develop them despite their years together. So Ian relayed his message the only way he knew how. He made them beat the shit out of each other. For one brief second, he felt what he used to feel. But he blinked and it was gone. And then Mickey was kissing him and pushing his clothes off and touching him with practiced and hungry hands. Ian went along because he wanted to feel it again. Wanted to feel the love and passion and adoration he once had. But he was numb. He was so fucking numb.

After…after, they held each other and Mickey whispered about missing the closeness. Ian agreed, but inside, he was suffocating.

Mickey hadn’t understood the message.

* * *

 

When he calls later that night, Mickey talks about the Kash and Grab. Ian has conflicting feelings about that store. He loves what he and Mickey started to build there but also hates the other relationship he had created there. The affair that meant nothing in the end.

Mickey admits to falling in love with Ian in that store. And Ian believes him. He knows the conversations they had there. The fucking. The laughing at inside jokes. That store is where they began and ended and began. Mickey then says what Ian suspects he’s been thinking since they ended.

“Sometimes I wish I never met you. Sometimes I wish I never knew your name.”

Mickey is the one who hangs up this time.

Ian wishes they never left that store.

* * *

 

Mickey’s confession felt like broken glass against Ian’s skin. He decides to stop calling him because he knows that Mickey is reaching the end of his patience with him. And Mickey was never patient to begin with.

In the meantime, Ian feels himself begin to unravel. He has racing thoughts and his concentration is shot. He has to go over the same tables multiple times because he can’t remember cleaning them. Fiona tries to broach this with him, but he blows her off.

He’s fine.

But then the voices come. The voices. The fucking voices. They’re just whispers now, but he feels them growing in intensity. Soon they’ll overtake his own thoughts. Soon they’ll control his every move. He shakes with the fear of it.

Another argument between Fiona and Debbie occurs a week and a half later. They had been at an uneasy truce for some time now, but that’s all been shot to hell now that Debbie’s informed them she’s moving out. Ian is merely a spectator – he’s trying to quiet the voices so he can hear what’s going on – to this battle. Debbie’s moving in with her boyfriend’s family after struggling for a couple of months to find a place in her baby daddy’s life. They all know that the guy is unreliable, but Debbie has the trappings of a little girl in a pregnant woman’s body. Poor Debbie.

Fiona has reluctantly accepted that Debbie is going through with the pregnancy so now her new mission is to make sure Debbie stays at home. Debbie of course isn’t having any of it.

Ian agrees with Fiona. He knows that eventually the guy will grow tired of playing house and Debbie will just end up back at the Gallagher house. So why leave?

Debbie and Fiona hurl barbs at each other, and just when Ian thinks the argument can’t get any worse, Debbie becomes eerily calm. She finally gives Fiona a reason that no one saw coming. But they should have. Debbie points at Ian and looks straight at Fiona.

“I don’t trust my baby around him.”

Ian and Fiona both freeze.

“I’m not going to raise my baby the way we were raised. I’m not going to let my baby be witness to someone losing their fucking mind because of a disease they’re too selfish to control. I’m not going to wait around until he kidnaps my kid to go to fucking Miami or some shit. I’m not going to watch as he throws my baby out the goddamn window because he thinks it can fly. I won’t do it.”

Fiona remains silent, and Debbie knows that she won.

She strolls out of the living room, leaving her siblings shivering in her wake.

* * *

 

Ian breaks down and calls Mickey that night. He has to hear his voice. He has to hear someone who maybe (might, hopefully) still care somewhat about him. The voices continue to whisper to him, but he pushes through to hear what Mickey has to say.

He should have let the voices overtake him because now he’s hearing the utter devastation in Mickey’s voice. He can’t speak. All he can do is listen while Mickey cries about Ian not loving him, about how he wanted to spend his life with him. Mickey mentions Mandy and Ian jolts. He had forgotten about her. His best friend and he forgot about her. He’s such an asshole.

Mickey cusses him out so he hangs up.

Ian spends the night thinking about his mother. How she filled them with love when she was around. How she made promises and laid devotion at their feet. And when she left again and again, the family was left annihilated. After expanding to include her for however long she stood, they would then scramble to close the gap. But there was always that crack.

It dawns on him then why they all think he’s like Monica.

* * *

 

Three days later Fiona, Ian, and Lip watch as Debbie moves out. Her boyfriend comes to pick her up and loads her meager belongings into his car. No introductions are made and all they get is a wave goodbye. Debbie looks happy, and Ian hopes that it’ll last.

But he knows it never does.

He calls Mickey that night because he doesn’t know how not to anymore. He stares off into the distance while Mickey sobs again about Ian not loving him anymore and begging him to speak. Ian won’t. What’s the point? Ian feels nothing when Mickey says that he’ll wait because honestly he doesn’t think either one of them deserve that torture.

So when Mickey demands that Ian no longer call him, Ian silently agrees.

The next morning Ian wakes up to the knowledge that he’ll never hear Mickey’s voice again.

* * *

 

The next month is a blur. Ian’s a fucking wreck. He’s in a manic state, spiraling out of control with each passing day. He runs the streets with God knows who doing God knows what. He wakes up in random men’s beds or on couches or floors. He drives 70 mph down Lakeshore Drive in what is definitely not his Mercedes. He’ll return it, of course, just as soon as he remembers whose it is. He almost collides into the barrier on the Oak Street curve because he doesn’t brake as quickly as he should. When he makes it out of that alive, he laughs until he cries because he finds it so exhilarating he wants to do it again. He wants to fly.

He runs eleven miles a day because there was no way in hell he’s going to sit still when there’s a whole world out there that he needs to explore. He argues with Fiona and Lip when they demand that he come home, that he see a doctor, that he take medication. He’s fucking up his life they say. They don’t know fuck all. If he’s so destructive, he’ll just stay out of their lives. Although truth be told, he doesn’t know what damage he could possibly cause. They’re doing a bang up job of fucking up their own lives themselves.

So he stays away. And he stays away.

He does better without them.

* * *

 

Ian wakes up in a motel room he doesn’t remember checking into. He has the remnants of what he assumes was a one night stand in his ass and on his chest. He finds that he can’t move. Everything hurts and when he even thinks about standing up he cries.

He knows what this is. He knows, but he was so sure he could skip this part that he never thought about it. He lies in bed until noon when a maid walks in to clean and finds him occupying the space. The manager comes in to demand Ian leave or either pay for another night. Ian answers with sobs.

The police and an ambulance show up and it takes three EMTs to lift him onto the gurney. He’s treated for dehydration and then admitted to the psychiatric unit. He’s there a week, but the psychiatrist won’t sign off on his discharge until they can ensure he has some place to go. He has no choice but to have them call Fiona.

Fiona arrives with Lip in tow. The car ride home is filled with Fiona and Lip’s pleas for him to take the help that’s being offered. He doesn’t reply.

Two weeks later when he feels on top of his game he skips his meds, his psychiatrist appointment, and town.

He doesn’t even leave a note.

* * *

 

A couple of weeks later, he’s hospitalized at Stroger Hospital after he’s found running down the street naked and yelling about Nazis. When he tells the doctors that his name is St. Michael Lucifer, there is no doubt that he’ll be admitted.

Five days later Lip comes to pick him up alone. He spews the same bullshit that Ian’s heard a million times since he was diagnosed with this fucking disease. Ian ignores him.

Barely a week goes by before the depression hits and he finds himself in his bed, looking down a dark tunnel of pain, disappointment, and guilt. Depression’s a cruel fucker. What people fail to understand is that depression is not just an inexplicable overwhelming sadness that suddenly envelops a person without rhyme or reason. It has a mind of its own really. It feeds itself by gourging on a person’s fears and insecurities.

His depression hones in on his past mistakes. It goes through each and every one of them, building the case that he is a bad person and doesn’t deserve to live.

Debbie is the one who finds him.

* * *

 

Ian finds himself in a sterile hospital room. He’s survived.

Fuck.

He sees Fiona sleeping in an uncomfortable chair next to his bed, but she wakes up when she hears the rustling of sheets. He croaks for water which she dutifully supplies. Ian can’t look at her.

“How long have I been here?”

“A day and a half. You’ve been in and out.”

He nods.

“They pumped your stomach. The doctors said that you don’t have any damage to your liver or kidneys so that’s something.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Once the doctors think your well enough, they’re going to transfer you to the psych ward. After that we’ll just have to wait and see.”

He doesn’t answer because he has nothing to say.

“Why?”

He doesn’t know how to tell her that it was for a million reasons. For no real reason. It’s difficult to explain. He doesn’t even understand it. So he shrugs.

Fiona sighs in exasperation.

“I have to get going. I’m working the lunch shift, but I’ll be back before visiting hours are over.”

“Who else has been here?”

“Lip. Kev and V. “

“Anyone else?”

Fiona shakes her head. She kisses him on the forehead before she leaves. Ian wipes his hands over his face.

Fuck his life.

* * *

 

By the time Ian gets out of the hospital, this disease has worn down his family. He arrives home to find Lip in the kitchen and a very pregnant Debbie at his side. It’s a fucking intervention. Ian shakes his head.

“Save it. I just want to lie down.”

Ian walks to the stairs, but Lip grabs him by the arm and turns him around.

“Fuck you. You’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

Debbie and Fiona just watch as Lip becomes the family mouthpiece.

“We’ve tried, Ian. We’ve all tried, but we don’t know what to do anymore. Every time you leave, I wonder if I’m every going to see you again. Every time, I think ‘is the last time I saw my brother really the last time?’ I’m sorry you’re sick. I’m sorry you got stuck with this fucking disease. I’m sorry that you’re angry and scared. I’m sorry that you think we treat you like a child and that you think we’re not helping. Maybe we’re not. Maybe we’re not what you need. We’re probably not enough. _This_ has shown us that we’re not enough. But we’re here. We’ll always be here.”

Tears slide down Lip’s face.

“I guess you have to do this on your own. We’ve resigned ourselves to the fact that you have to do this on your own. The harder we push the further you run. And we don’t want you running. Just do me a favor. Try to remember us. Okay? Remember us.”

And with that, the intervention is over.

* * *

 

Ian takes it upon himself to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist. He actually goes. He applies for CountyCare. He sees a counselor. He works with the doctor for two months before his medications are adjusted to his liking. He stabilizes and it’s the most stable he’s been since the disease came.

One day he picks up the phone because he finally has something to say.

“Hey, Mick.”


	3. Them

Mickey freezes when he hears Ian’s voice. The hand holding his phone slightly shakes as he grips the phone harder.

“Mick, you there?”

Mickey takes a breath.

“I’m here.”

They’re silent. Ian breaks first.

“It’s been awhile.”

Mickey bites his lip before responding.

“Yeah.”

He pauses here but pushes forward.

“Why are you calling?”

“I don’t know. The only reason that’s popping into my head is that I wanted to.”

The awkwardness is palpable. How does a person even begin to have a conversation with someone whom they loved from a distance for months?

“I have to go.”

“You’re busy?”

Mickey hesitates.

“No. I just…I have to go.”

“Okay.”

Mickey hangs up.

He grabs his cigarette pack, lighting one quickly. The phone call has unnerved him. He didn’t expect to hear from Ian again. Not after he told him to stop calling. He had made peace with this. He had been moving on. Now this.

Mickey speaks into the silence of the house.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

Ian lies in bed listening to the light breaths of a sleeping Liam. He wills his mind to stop racing, to stop running through all the words he should have spoken. He fucked up again. He had Mickey’s attention for the first time in six months and he didn’t present himself well. It was a wasted opportunity.

After staring at his ceiling for an hour, he’s come to the conclusion that he will not be falling asleep so he creeps out of his room and down to the kitchen. He finds Lip sitting at the table with an open textbook in front of him. He’s not even reading it; he’s more focused on spinning his pen on the table. He looks up when Ian sits down.

“Why are you up?”

Ian shrugs.

“Same reason as you. Too much thinking.”

Lip goes back to staring at his spinning pen.

“Love’s a jacked up part of the human condition. We have this unquenchable need for someone to adore us. For someone to make us feel special because they picked you out of the seven billion people in the world. Then you get it, and you realize that it’s not what you wanted.”

Lip leans forward in his chair, making eye contact with Ian.

“Love is an evolutionary response. It’s designed to trick you into thinking that a mate is necessary for survival. Which it is, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the wrong kind of survival. It’s not a personal one. It’s for the good of the species. So you sit there with whomever and you build it up in your head. You build this love up in your head until it’s reached epic proportions. Until it’s reached the point of no return. Then you have a couple of kids and you find yourself looking at the person that your brain chose for you as the best partner you could get and realizing that there is no love there. There never was because it was just your genes ensuring their continued existence. You wasted years of your life on an illusion.”

Ian stares at his hands.

“She really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

Lip leans back in his chair, tilting his head back, making his Adam’s apple more prominent.

“Yeah. She did.”

Ian looks at his brother. His brother who has carried the curse of unrequited love his whole life. From their mother to his married professor, he has been unable to shake the feeling of being unwanted. It’s something all the Gallagher children have struggled with.

“I called Mickey.”

Lip snaps to attention.

“Why?”

Ian shrugs while rubbing his left thumb over his right palm.

“I wanted to. I’ve been calling him. I mean, I was calling him almost every night for awhile. Then he asked me to stop so I did. Me getting better has changed things. The changes have been good for me, but I don’t know what they mean for us.”

“There is no you. Hasn’t been for some time now.”

“I know.”

“So what did he say?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing. Asked me why I called and then told me that he had to go.”

“And the other nights?”

Ian’s not sure if he should divulge this information. It feels like sacred pillow talk. He doesn’t get specific.

“Shared some memories. Asked me why I ended it. “

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I would just call and listen to him talk.”

“What was the point of that?”

“It’s hard letting go of someone you relied on for years.”

They sit in silence before Lip continues.

“I blame Frank and Monica for our fucked up love lives.”

Ian chuckles.

“Why not? We blame them for everything else.”

“No, I’m serious. Other people look to their parents, or grandparents, or aunts and uncles as examples of love. Because how else are you supposed to know what love looks like? We had a shitty example. Now, everything that’s shit feels like love.”

Ian has no response to that. He wants to say that it isn’t true, but he can’t. He settles for getting up from the table.

“I’m going to try and get some sleep. I have work in the morning.”

Ian spends the rest of the night repeating Lip’s proclamation in his head.

Everything that’s shit feels like love.

* * *

 

Mickey waits until six in the morning before he calls Mandy. He spent the night chain smoking and repeating his and Ian’s stilted conversation in his head. Mandy answers less than pleased at being woken up at this godforsaken hour until she hears the tone of Mickey’s voice.

“Shit. What?”

“He called. Again. Ian called again.”

“What was the silence like this time?”

“He talked.”

“What did he say?”

“Told me the reason he was calling was because he wanted to. How’s that for bullshit?”

“What else?”

“Nothing. I told him I had to go. All those phone calls where he didn’t say anything and now he finally does, and I can’t wrap my head around the sound of his voice. I thought this was done.”

“Are things like this ever done?”

Mandy pauses.

“Are you going to talk to him again?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you should. You were talking to him before even if it was just one-sided. Do it again. At least this time you’ll get some answers.”

“What do I say?”

“Whatever you need to. Even if it’s just goodbye.”

Later, Mickey will run that word over his tongue again and again. Goodbye. And goodbye.

And goodbye.

* * *

 

Ian decides to call again. It’s a slow process for him. He stares at his phone, running his fingers over the screen and its case before scrolling through his contacts, stopping at “M”. He waits a few minutes before pressing on Mickey’s name. By the time Mickey’s phone rings, it’s already 3:13.

Mickey answers on the fifth ring.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

Ian takes a breath.

“How are you?”

“Ian, whatever you have to say just say it. You’ll say it and I’ll say it and then…”

“And then what?”

“Then we go on.”

Ian doesn’t know if Mickey means alone or together, but he’s not confident enough to ask.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the shit I pulled. For running, for the hurtful words and the fists. For the men. For the fucking suitcases. For taking the bab –“

“What men?”

Ian stops in fear. The men.

“Mickey…”

“What men, Ian?”

“The porno shoot.”

“I know about the fucking porno shoot. What men?”

Ian clenches a fist.

“There were others. Handjobs. And blowjobs.”

“Where?”

“The grocery store. The diner. At the club.”

“How many?”

Ian swallows.

“Five. Five, including the porn shoot.”

He hears Mickey take a shaky breath.

“When?”

“Before we ended. During the summer.”

Ian’s met with silence. He waits for Mickey to process the information. He should have just kept talking because Mickey’s soft voice makes tears spring to his eyes.

“You mean when I thought we were happy?”

Ian rushes through an explanation.

“I was fucked up, Mick. I was fucked up for a really long time, and I just didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to see, to know, that nothing was the same. That things were changing and I couldn’t stop the change. I told myself what I did – the acts themselves – didn’t count. I told myself none of it counted.”

Again, Ian’s met with silence. When Mickey does speak, Ian can hear the tears in his voice.

“When you love someone, Ian, everything counts.”

Ian hears the phone click.

* * *

 

Mickey stares at his phone before throwing it across the room as if it was the one to tell him it had received handjobs and blowjobs from random men. Mickey stands up from his bed and starts pacing his room, rubbing his hands over his face, scrubbing away the tears. He then lets out a pain-filled scream. He tears through his room, ripping posters off his wall and throwing a lamp, pushing items off his dresser. He storms out of his room to the kitchen, grabbing a couple of garbage bags. He begins to gather the belongings Ian had left behind. Clothes that Mickey had taken to wearing during the worse of it. A couple of pairs of running shoes. His leather jacket. His army uniform and ROTC shit. Those green shirts that brought out his eyes. Boxers. Cologne. He rips Ian’s picture off the wall. The one that got him through all the times Ian ran away. The one that he would stare at and jerk off to, pretending the entire time that it was Ian’s hand that touched him. He shreds it with angry hands now. Wanting fuck all to do with that fucking crazy ass whore.

He takes the bags and throws them in the garbage can behind his house. He digs through piled up, broken shit in his backyard before he finds what he needs to burn this whole fucking shit to the ground. To cleanse himself of Ian. To turn them into ash. He sets the garbage ablaze, watching for a while with tears rolling down his face.

He walks away.

Fuck that piece of shit.

* * *

 

Ian cries into his hands, knowing, just knowing that he has ruined them. He thought, oh God, he thought that maybe they could make it through. That maybe they could wade through the shit that they called life to reach for each other’s hand. But it’s out there. Everything he did is out there. There’s no turning back now.

He stands and makes his way to Fiona’s room. He needs someone to hear him cry. To tell him that it’s all going to be all right even if it is a lie.

He wakes her up and watches as she rolls over, squinting at him in the dark before noticing that he’s crying. She sits up.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Ian shakes his head. Fiona envelops him in her arms and feels as he shakes with sobs. She doesn’t say anything. Just lets him cry.

Everything Ian loves turns to shit in his hands.

* * *

 

Mickey drinks and he drinks and he drinks. He tries to erase the thoughts of Ian’s hands and mouth wrapped around other cocks. Tries to erase the knowledge that Ian would be stroked and licked by other men before coming home to him. Before kissing him. Before touching him. Before fucking him and sharing his bed. Who’s the Southside piece of trash now?

Mickey knows he’s not innocent. He knows that he fucked a woman. Got a blowjob from some twink in a park. But it doesn’t make a difference now. Ian had destroyed everything they had long before Mickey did what he did. Everything counts. Fuck that. It doesn’t count when the relationship was over before the words were spoken.

Anger runs through him because he was happy. _Happy_ , goddamn it. And it didn’t mean shit. Ian can cry all he wants about being sick. About being fucked up. Mental illness is not a get out of jail free card. If he could tell himself it didn’t count, then he knew exactly what he was fucking doing. He knew how best to drive a stake through their relationship’s heart. That stupid fuck.

Everything Mickey loves turns to shit in his hands.

* * *

 

Ian sits at the kitchen table while Fiona stands at the counter holding a cup of coffee and watching him take his pills. After months of Ian’s stability, he knows she still doesn’t completely trust him. It annoys the shit out of him, but he knows she’s wary of progress. They’ve seen it before. Progress doesn’t mean forever. It just means for now.

“Want to tell me what happened last night?”

He doesn’t, but if he refuses, Fiona will only break a little more. He’s noticed she’s lost weight. The circles under her eyes are darker. Her edges are frayed and it’s only a matter of time before she crumples under the stress. She’s been doing this since she was fourteen. The strain is unimaginable.

“I’ve been calling Mickey.”

Fiona shows a look of surprise.

“Oh.”

“I mean, I had been calling Mickey. After, you know. For a few weeks. Then I stopped for awhile. But I started again.”

“Are you two trying to work things out?”

Ian rubs his eyes.

“I told him I had been cheating on him. I was cheating.”

Ian quiets. Fiona remains still, letting Ian gather his thoughts.

“It’s wrecking.”

“It’s always been wrecking. You were just too in love to see it.”

Ian chuckles and stares at his hands.

“If he still had love for me, I think it’s gone now.”

Fiona walks over to him, wrapping him in her arms. His head lies under hers.

“I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing left to say.

* * *

 

For weeks afterwards, Ian makes nightly phone calls. Mickey ignores every single one. Ian doesn’t leave messages. Mickey knew he wouldn’t. What could Ian possibly say in a message? Besides, Mickey wouldn’t listen to them anyway.

Mickey calls Mandy again. Vents to her like always. He doesn’t know when they got to be so vocal with each other, but he’s glad they did. She’s the only person he has to talk to. She’s pissed. He’s grateful for it. He knows Ian is (was?) her best friend. Family comes first, though. It always has with the Milkovichs. They have a lot of bad characteristics, but no one can say they aren’t loyal.

He asks to visit her in Indiana. She refuses, saying that she’s busy with work. She’s going back to school. Kenyatta wouldn’t like it.

He goes anyway.

* * *

 

Debbie’s baby comes. Fiona’s by Debbie’s side through it all, helping coach her because the guy is completely useless. Ian wouldn’t expect anything less from a child.

Lip comes to the hospital and sits with Ian and Liam in the waiting room. It takes hours, but they won’t leave. Gallaghers never leave their own.

By the time it’s all said and done, Ian gets to visit his nephew and a very exhausted Debbie. For all her bitching, Fiona’s excited to have the baby finally here. They all are. They pass the baby around, admiring his ten fingers and ten toes, his little tuft of black hair. He doesn’t look like a Gallagher. It’s probably better that way.

Ian sneaks off to the bathroom to call Mickey, wanting to share the good news. He doesn’t answer. He calls Mandy, but she doesn’t answer either. He shouldn’t be surprised.

Later, the three main Gallagher players sit in the kitchen and drink a beer to toast the new addition. Fiona sighs.

“I never wanted this for Debbie. She’s too young.”

Lip replies.

“Too late to worry about that now. The kid’s here. It’s time for her to grow up, I guess.”

“Who knows? Maybe this is what we need. Some fresh blood. Something to light a fire under our ass. Something to make us try harder to get things in order. This kid might be the one to crawl out of the gutter.”

Ian remains silent. He never understood why babies brought out the optimism and idealism in people. He always felt it was too much to ask for from something that can’t survive on its own.

They sit in silence, each of them thinking what their own future holds.

* * *

 

Mandy lives in a shithole. Mickey can tell that she tried to pretty it up a bit when he told her that he was coming, but he knows that it’s still a shithole. Kenyatta doesn’t come home much, but Mandy doesn’t seem surprised by it. Mickey figures this is the way things are now. Fucker’s probably banging anything with a pussy. Mickey knows it’s only a matter of time before he kicks Mandy out, probably to move his new bitch in.

Mickey watches from the kitchen table while Mandy stirs the milk and packet of artificial powdered cheese into the macaroni.

“You can come home whenever you want, you know.”

Mandy stiffens.

“What makes you think I want to come home?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying. You can if you ever wanted to.”

“There’s nothing but shit for me there. I’m happy where I am.”

Mickey ignores the blatant lie.

“So you’re going back to school?”

Mandy doles out macaroni on two plates, setting Mickey’s in front of him before sitting down. She shrugs.

“GED. Nothing special.”

“It’s further then the rest of us got.”

They eat in silence for awhile before Mandy finally addresses the storm cloud overhead.

“Have you talked to him?”

Mickey remains stoic.

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

“I think you should.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Because you miss him. Because you hate that you still love him.”

Mickey remains silent. Mandy continues.

“He’s been calling me. I haven’t answered, but he’s been calling.”

“Let him.”

“Mickey…”

He snaps.

“Drop it.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I don’t know shit.”

“Well, then, maybe that’s the problem.”

They eat the remainder of their meal in silence.

* * *

 

Ian sits on the top step of his porch smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance. He flicks the ash every once in a while, watching as it floats away on the wind. He thinks about his last conversation with Mickey. About his confession. About the love they had once. He wonders about the extent of love. Wonders how far love is willing to go. How far it can stretch. If it could cloak misdeeds and broken promises and hateful words.

He’s working himself up to calling Mickey again. He side eyes his phone as if it will attack him at any moment. As if it’s not to be trusted. Finally, he sucks it up and clicks on Mickey’s name. He’s not expecting an answer. He’s wrong.

“What?”

Ian pauses in shock.

“You answered.”

“No fucking shit.”

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Mickey sighs.

“But you did, didn’t you? You knew that the shit you pulled would hurt me, but you did it anyway.”

Ian has nothing to say to that. It’s true.

“You know after you came back that first time…when we got back together. I remember looking at your hand hanging from that bed. That fucking bed that we would squeeze ourselves into. And I would look at that hand and tell myself that you wouldn’t stay. Fucking said that you wouldn’t stay, that there was no reason for you to. I was right.”

Mickey’s voice sounds small then.

“I never wanted to be right.”

Ian sniffs through his tears.

“Can we fix this?”

“There is no ‘we’. There’s ‘you’ and there’s ‘me’.”

“Do you still love me?”

There’s a couple of seconds of silence before Mickey hangs up.

* * *

 

Mickey decides to stay with Mandy longer than he had planned. He briefly considers staying in Indiana with her permanently but shakes that thought out of his mind. He won’t move to Indiana. Even though there’s nothing for him in Chicago anymore, he won’t move to Indiana. Although he can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

He doesn’t tell Mandy about talking with Ian. He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say. She’ll just pressure him into continuing with the conversations, to talk through their issues. His anger has subsided somewhat after putting distance between himself and Ian, but it’s still there. Along with a sadness he hasn’t experienced since Ian walked away from him that final time. It’s a fucking shame really. Mickey was only ever good at dealing with anger. Sadness never factored into his life until Ian crashed through it. Then it just became a somewhat constant feeling.

He sits on Mandy’s back stairs smoking his fifth cigarette. He has a wonderful view of a weed infested backyard and the alley. He repeats Ian’s question to himself, whispering the words, feeling the weight of them on his tongue. He hears the screen door close behind him. Feels as Mandy sits on the stair next to him. She leans her head on his shoulder and sighs. Neither one of them say anything. Neither one of them know that each are thinking about their lives. How fucked up they are. Both of them are bruised and broken and bloodied. Each struggling to breath with the knowledge that they never stood a chance.

Mickey runs over the question in his mind again.

“Do you still love me?”

Truth is, he never knew how not to.

* * *

 

Ian spends his day on autopilot. He exchanges pleasantries with his co-workers, picks up dishes and wipes tables and counters. He takes his smoke breaks in the alley and spends lunch a block away under the El, eating a sandwich one of the cooks made him. He ignores Fiona’s prying eyes during the dinner rush and the “fuck me” eyes of a good looking patron. The old Ian would have fucked that guy in the bathroom to clear his mind, but the Ian now, the Ian that is trying to fix the beautiful boy he broke months ago, knows that fucking that guy would just be another skeleton in his closet. And the closet is already jam-packed.

Ian walks home with Fiona and shrugs his shoulders when she asks if he’s doing okay. He’s not really, but he can’t go into that right now. When they arrive home, Lip’s watching TV and smoking a cigarette. He doesn’t look the least bit interested in whatever’s on. He looks up when they walk through the door, flashing a smile at Fiona before she walks upstairs. He then looks at Ian and pats the couch. Ian’s in no mood to be lectured but knows that if he doesn’t sit, Lip will just follow him to his room. So he sits.

“Fiona told you to talk to me?”

Lip nods.

“Yeah. She’s worried.”

“She’s always worried.”

“Yeah, well, can you blame her?”

Ian doesn’t reply.

“She told me about Mickey. About you telling him that you were cheating on him.”

Again, Ian doesn’t reply.

Lip sighs.

“Listen, I know that you were with Mickey for a long time, and that’s not easy to let go.”

“Don’t, Lip.”

“No, hear me out. Listen, I know that it’s all starting to hit you. The stuff that you did when you weren’t on meds. And I get that you want to clear the air and make things right and all of that shit, but I think this is one you should drop. We don’t think you should call Mickey anymore.”

Ian chuckles and rubs his forehead.

“You think I’m going to spiral because I’m trying to mend things?”

“I think you’re going to spiral because you can’t mend things.”

Ian stares at his hands. Lip presses through.

“I know that you still love him. And I know that you put yourself through a lot of shit because you love him. But I think it’s enough now. I think it’s time to call it.”

Ian doesn’t say a word. He just gets up from the couch and walks upstairs to his room. He knows Lip is probably right.

But, frankly, he doesn’t give a shit.

* * *

 

Mickey’s drunk. Really drunk. He and Mandy split a quart of vodka and smoke through two packs of cigarettes while reminiscing about their shitty childhoods. They talk about the time that they took a mattress someone left in the alley and placed it in their backyard because they decided that it would cushion their fall when they jumped off the porch. It didn’t.

Mandy tells Mickey about the time that a friend from school they called Angel Boy sprayed the sleeve of his jacket with hairspray and then set it on fire. She laughs when she describes the way he ran around trying to put it out. He suffered second degree burns.

Mickey pushes aside the memories of beatings and blood and scars that have never faded. But Mandy can’t.

“Do you ever wonder why Dad hated us so much?”

“No.”

“You don’t ever wonder why he was so mean?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t.”

Mickey won’t make eye contact with her.

“I did when I was younger. I remember trying to be really good so that he wouldn’t be so mad. And then I finally realized that he was always mad. It didn’t matter what I did, what we did. He was just mad.”

Mickey looks at her now and sees that she’s crying.

“Don’t look for some deep-rooted explanation, Mandy. You won’t find one.”

They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Mickey’s phone begins to buzz. They both look at it while it vibrates on the table.

“Are you going to answer it?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“I think you should. We all fuck up, Mickey. At least he’s willing to own up to it.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“No, but it doesn’t make it worse.”

Mickey shakes his head again. But he reaches for the phone.

* * *

 

Ian hears Mickey answer, but no greeting is given.

“Mickey?”

“Yeah.”

Ian hears shuffling in the background and assumes that Mickey is moving to another room. He briefly wonders who he’s with if he needs to take the call in private.

“How are you?”

“Fucking dandy.”

“I’m sor – “

“Jesus Christ, please just stop. Stop. I can’t hear another fucking apology. Just tell me why. Tell me what you got from them that you didn’t get from me.”

“Nothing. They gave me nothing.”

Mickey yells.

“Then why? Fucking tell me why. Why would you ruin the best thing that I had in my life? Why would you take three fucking years of struggle and fuck it all away? After years of wading through pain and shit and fucking blood, we finally got to be happy. And it still wasn’t easy, you know? You got sick and I took care of you. _Me_. That was me dragging you into the bathroom and bathing you. That was me changing your clothes and the sheets and wiping you down because you were so depressed that you wouldn’t even get up to piss. That was me hiding knives and guns and razors because I was so afraid you were going to off yourself if I even looked away for just a second. I was the one hunting your ass down every time you fucked off to God knows where, scared that I would get the call that you were dead. That you fucked yourself up so bad that there was nothing left to save. It wasn’t those fucking fags you fucked behind my back. It was me. Just me.”

Ian’s crying now.

“I know; I know. You have no idea how much I fucking hate myself for what I did. I burned us. We fought so hard for every fucking second we had. I know. But I love you. I love you. I didn’t stop. I swear I didn’t stop.”

They stay on the phone for what feels like hours just listening to each other cry.

* * *

 

After that conversation, the storm breaks and they find themselves surrounded by debris, but they themselves are intact. Ian continues to call on a nightly basis despite the fact that Mickey doesn’t always answer. When they do talk, it’s stilted at best, but eventually – oh, but eventually – progress is made. Mickey starts to answer more often. They begin to share the details of their day. In bits and pieces, they discuss the past. Sometimes, one hangs up on the other in anger and they won’t talk for a couple of days after, but they always came back.

After three and a half months, Mickey finally agrees to meet with Ian. They meet on neutral ground, a greasy spoon diner which bears no memory of them. They sit across from each other, staring at their hands or out the window. After over a year apart, they don’t know how to look at each other without seeing a dichotomy of lover and stranger.

When Mickey tells Ian that there are no wide open arms for him, Ian nods.

“Maybe someday?”

Blue eyes finally meet green eyes.

“Maybe someday.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
